"Father" is a word that has haunted me for most of my adult life. My parents divorced while my mom was pregnant with me, so I've never once seen or had any kind of contact with my biological father. You'd think that would have bothered me more as a child, but they say you can't miss what you never had, and in my case, that was true. Over the years, my mom remarried three more times, but none of those "fathers" lasted very long either - #2 was still married to another woman, #3 was verbally and emotionally abusive, and #4 seemed great at first, until he tried to rape and kill my sister. Only #2 did I ever call "daddy" and mean it, but I was so young and he was gone so soon that he barely even rates a footnote in my catalog of childhood memories; his only lasting legacy was instilling in me a fear of dogs that lasted until I was several years older.
It wasn't until college that I ever sat down around a table with a mom and a dad and all their kids, for a family dinner, at a friend's house - and it seemed genuinely odd to me, because I'd only ever seen that on TV. A few years later, I began developing a friendship with an older man, a genuinely good man, a man almost old enough to be my father, and he began to feel like a father to me. Only then did I first feel the pain of growing up fatherless, because only then did I begin to realize everything that I had missed.
Father's Day was, more often than not, a non-event in our house growing up. Most of the time there was no man in our house besides myself, and whenever the next step-dad was there, gifts and celebration felt more out of obligation than genuine appreciation. Before I was married, the only Father's Day card I ever bought because I wanted to was one for the friend and mentor mentioned above; I signed it and addressed it, but I still have it now, because I wasn't sure that sending it would be the right thing to do - how awkward that might or might not be.
Now I'm almost five years married and almost two years into the journey of trying to become a father on my own - longing to give our child what I never had, swearing that I will not repeat the mistakes of my parents, determined to be the best damn dad that any kid ever saw. Tomorrow, however, is the first Father's Day since I was diagnosed IF last fall, and my body betrays me - cursed I was to live fatherless my life before today, and cursed by my flesh to not be a father now.
Our local minor league baseball team is in town this weekend, and I'll be spending tomorrow afternoon at the ballpark after singing the national anthem. Irony, that - before a game with built-in celebrations for fathers, they've asked a man who thus far can't be a father to kick off the event. I wonder if all the other men would run me out of the stadium if they knew.
Wednesday I go in for my next blasted SA. Two weeks after that, I'll see the urologist again and get the results, and we'll see what turn our own journey to parenthood takes next after that. There's no way to know for sure, of course, but certain things we do know have shown signs of improvement, so there's hope for good news, and hope that odds have improved that the best news may yet be coming after that.
I don't want this Father's Day to be a time of mourning. We'll celebrate tomorrow my wife's wonderful dad, who will be coming with us to the ballpark. And I'll look forward to the day - someday - that the celebration will one Father's Day finally be my own.
It wasn't until college that I ever sat down around a table with a mom and a dad and all their kids, for a family dinner, at a friend's house - and it seemed genuinely odd to me, because I'd only ever seen that on TV. A few years later, I began developing a friendship with an older man, a genuinely good man, a man almost old enough to be my father, and he began to feel like a father to me. Only then did I first feel the pain of growing up fatherless, because only then did I begin to realize everything that I had missed.
Father's Day was, more often than not, a non-event in our house growing up. Most of the time there was no man in our house besides myself, and whenever the next step-dad was there, gifts and celebration felt more out of obligation than genuine appreciation. Before I was married, the only Father's Day card I ever bought because I wanted to was one for the friend and mentor mentioned above; I signed it and addressed it, but I still have it now, because I wasn't sure that sending it would be the right thing to do - how awkward that might or might not be.
Now I'm almost five years married and almost two years into the journey of trying to become a father on my own - longing to give our child what I never had, swearing that I will not repeat the mistakes of my parents, determined to be the best damn dad that any kid ever saw. Tomorrow, however, is the first Father's Day since I was diagnosed IF last fall, and my body betrays me - cursed I was to live fatherless my life before today, and cursed by my flesh to not be a father now.
Our local minor league baseball team is in town this weekend, and I'll be spending tomorrow afternoon at the ballpark after singing the national anthem. Irony, that - before a game with built-in celebrations for fathers, they've asked a man who thus far can't be a father to kick off the event. I wonder if all the other men would run me out of the stadium if they knew.
Wednesday I go in for my next blasted SA. Two weeks after that, I'll see the urologist again and get the results, and we'll see what turn our own journey to parenthood takes next after that. There's no way to know for sure, of course, but certain things we do know have shown signs of improvement, so there's hope for good news, and hope that odds have improved that the best news may yet be coming after that.
I don't want this Father's Day to be a time of mourning. We'll celebrate tomorrow my wife's wonderful dad, who will be coming with us to the ballpark. And I'll look forward to the day - someday - that the celebration will one Father's Day finally be my own.
